


1. e4

by delhuillier



Series: Crucible [8]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Gen, Morph!Kiran, genderless Kiran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delhuillier/pseuds/delhuillier
Summary: Interlude: the moment of Kiran's creation, and after.





	1. e4

They come to themselves in the blessed light. It blossoms into infinity, scouring and scorching, pouring endlessly from a source whose incandescence blinds them. A voice fills their head, their body:

_At last, with this blood offering, I can give you the gift of being. You will be my hands, you will be my ears, my eyes…_

Their master (they know this because it is written into their very being that they call what made them master) grants them knowledge: They are fed the histories of wars, accounts of battles, and tales of skirmishes, of ambuscades, of brutal Blitzkriege; they are taught the intricacies of different forms of magic, of how masters of anima commune with the spirits and seekers of dark with the deep knowledge of the worlds. They learn about weapons, and the advantages and disadvantages peculiar to each of them, and the many, many injuries each of them can inflict. They are gifted with a mind whose pattern-matching skills will allow them to read the ebb and flow of the battlefield with ease.

To aid them in their role as strategist, their master hones their senses until they are far sharper than those of humans. Eagle-eyed, a bloodhound’s nose—these are not exaggerations for effect, when it comes to them.

And lastly, their master gives them some of his power: they can use Breidablik, they can tear open portals between worlds, and they can defend themselves, if absolutely necessary.

What they neither have nor are given is the capacity to feel (judged unnecessary), or a soul (because glorious though their master is, even he cannot give them one).

The light fades, just a little. Six wings, their joints and feathers set with golden, slitted eyes, rustle their ivory feathers, and fold back. This reveals a dragon’s face, long and noble, with smooth sockets where the eyes should have been, and a mouth that does not move, even as the dragon speaks. 

_Soulless husk as you are, in the eyes of the world you are nothing more than an object. The tapestry of the shared fate of gods and men—your thread does not figure in its weave._

The scent of yew, sharp and fresh yet tainted by the cloying stink of decay, winds around them, fills their nostrils. An arrow of mistletoe wood nestles in the glittering field of scales that is their master’s chest, and from the wound it inflicted sludges rotted blood as black as pitch.

Their master laughs.

_It is time...Kiran. Humanity grows the most when they must overcome terrible hardship, and no life lived without pain has meaning._

_How, then, will this war change you?_

The light rises once more, veiling their master until he is a burning circle in their eyes; and they realise that it is the sun, overhead, and that they are lying in the grass. At the words of the person whose blood had sparked the fire of their creation—Anna, her name is, the Commander of the Order of Heroes—they stand. And they do what they were made to do. The Emblian soldiers are routed in short order.

Later, Kiran meets the Askran royals. A young man and a young woman. The two of them greet Commander Anna, the corners of their lips turning up. Princess Sharena remarks on Kiran’s golden eyes.

Then the prince comes to them.

“You’re Kiran, correct?” There’s the expression with the turned-up lips again. “Anna told me who you were—and that you conducted yourself admirably on the battlefield.”

They say, “Yes.”

Silence ensues afterwards, because Kiran was not built for conversation, and because they already understand their role. They have no questions for the prince; they know all the answers. The knowledge sits complete in their head, placed there carefully by their master at the moment of their creation.

“Do you feel ill?” Prince Alfonse ventures, after a moment. His expression has flattened out for the most part, though his brows draw together as he speaks. “Only, you’re so pale…”

Kiran shakes their head, just once. Left. Right. They cannot fall ill.

“Are you certain? I assure you, you shouldn’t be afraid to tell us when something’s amiss. You’re our Divine Summoner now, so it’s important you stay well.” Prince Alfonse steps closer, and tugs off his gloves; he raises a hand (intending, Kiran learns later, to check for pyrexia). “Just let me make sure…”

Kiran recoils to avoid Alfonse’s hand. Because they, _tabula rasa_ save for the encyclopaedic knowledge of war their master had given them, are intimately familiar with the kind of harm hands can inflict. Because they, left for some reason or another so half-finished, left so deficient in their knowledge of human custom, can only interpret the gesture in terms of battle: to them, a human being only raises a hand when they intend to hurt. To maim. To kill.

Alfonse freezes in place, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, Kiran,” he says in a soft voice, heavy with some emotion Kiran doesn’t understand. “I’m not going to hurt you—why would you think I’d…?”

His voice dwindles as he speaks and eventually he falls silent. They stare at each other, prince and Divine Summoner, and say not a word.

Princess Sharena jogs up to them, and her hand lands on Alfonse’s shoulder. Kiran looks at that hand as she speaks. “Hey, you two. We’re getting ready to go.”

“All right,” Alfonse says. “Thank you for letting us know.”

Sharena peers at her brother, first, and then at Kiran. “...Er, am I interrupting anything?”

“No, nothing,” Alfonse says with a court-honed smile. He puts his gloves on one hand at a time. “Just introducing ourselves.”

The Order accepts Kiran without much difficulty—unsurprisingly. This is what they were created for. 

The prince and princess interfere daily with their work, insisting that they eat, though they do not need to, and insisting that they sleep, though they do not need to do that, either. Kiran tells them so, too, but Sharena replies with “Excuses, excuses, Kiran,” and drags them off to the kitchen; Alfonse, for his part, acquires the expression he’d worn back when he tried to check Kiran’s temperature, and says, “It’s okay to ask for things, Kiran. Really. None of us mind helping you.”

So Kiran eats—anything given to them, because they have no preference at all—and sometimes, Kiran even sleeps. They always dream, and dream mostly of the same thing. A light-filled plane, empty of all things. Clean and sterile.

Sometimes their master appears in their dreams, too. A great Divine Dragon cloaked in light, pawing through their memories. That Alfonse and Sharena care so much about Kiran already amuses him greatly— _you are nothing_ , he says, _but I suppose it’s enough for them that you look human. Such masters of self-deception…they see what they want to see._

Their master gives them an order: _Stay close to Alfonse. Bruno’s disappearance made him weak. Vulnerable. He needs someone—some_ thing _in your case—to soothe the injury that did him._

Prince Alfonse, more so than Princess Sharena, takes Kiran under his golden wing as Kiran continues to work as the Divine Summoner and as the Order’s tactician. He stands by their side, divine bolt-hole Fólkvangr (Kiran can hear the mad murmurings of the goddess inside, thick and sweet as treacle) held in his hand, during battles. Kiran submits to these affections—though even that is somewhat of an exaggeration, because to submit to something implies a modicum of individual will—because that is what their master ordered them to do.

There comes a time where Princess Veronica traps Kiran in another world. Their master enjoins them not to defend themselves: _Should it come to that, I will extinguish this upstart princess’ light myself. But the damage you would suffer serving as a conduit for my full power...wait, Kiran. Perhaps something might develop._

It sounds as if their master knows exactly what’s going to happen. And sure enough, a rescuer arrives, using Bruno’s voice to call himself Zacharias. He ushers Kiran back through a portal, and leaves them with these words: “Watch out for Alfonse and the others.”

Prince Alfonse, Princess Sharena, and the commander all crowd around them when they come back, none the worse for wear.

“Oh, _Kiran_ ,” Sharena says. Words fail her; Kiran sees a glimmer of something in her eyes, which vanishes when she blinks.

Alfonse is more composed, though only just. “When I saw you disappear just like Zacharias did,” he says, his expression tense and drawn tight with what Kiran slowly realises must be pain, “I thought my chest would burst.”

“Me too,” Sharena chimes in. She knocks Kiran’s arm lightly. “You can’t just _disappear_ on us like that, Kiran. For a moment we thought you’d never come back!”

Kiran opens their mouth. “I…” they say, slowly, “...I’m back.”

Alfonse grips their shoulder. The corners of his lips turn up—a smile, Kiran remembers. That’s what that is. “Welcome back.”

His hand is warm. There’s a feeling in Kiran’s chest—like a clenched fist, like a body going rigid after being struck. A tightness. But it’s not painful. Just...uncomfortable. And it’s not something their master conjured himself; this is something all their own. A spark, illuminating a darkened room.

“All right, enough talking,” Commander Anna says, cutting through it all. “We’ve got to get out of here before Embla closes the gateway on us again. Hurry!”

“As you say, Commander,” Alfonse says. “Come, Kiran. Let’s go.”

Kiran nods, and the four of them move towards the portal. With Alfonse on their right, Sharena on their left, and Anna bringing up the rear, watching for approaching Emblian soldiers, Kiran passes through the portal, and returns to the light of Askr’s sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and apologies to Norse mythology (and to Schopenhauer, for stealing one of his well-known quotes).
> 
> The only thing Kiran's master had in Breidablik for millennia was a copy of Xenogears and a PlayStation, so all he knows how to do is have annoyingly cryptic conversations.


End file.
